The Vagabond will indulge this morning in a bit of introspection which will soon dissolve, like a liberal club's debates, into airy persiflage. There are times in the lives of all men when there comes an irrestible urge for action, when they must get them hence. And there are also times when the sedentary life, with pipe, Tom Collinses, an arm chair and all the other appurtenances of leisure seem the only thing, indeed when they are the only thing. On the threshold of such an epoch the Vagabond has arrived, Dunhill in hand. He is sick of wastin' leather on gritty pavin' stones. He is also sick of college. Above all he is sick of grinding out his daily drivel for the unmitigated pleasure of Freshmen while they wait for their questionable eggs at the Union. There is something revolting about the eternal, saccharine romance he spows forth. He is so tired of strewing roses from the CRIMSON Building to Sever 11 for English or Greek professors to tread upon as they go to deliver a lecture on the "Use of the Infinitive in Chaucer," or "The Place of the Hammer in the Building of the Wooden Horse." It requires all his alchemy to turn such prosey matter into palatable pap for the undergraduate. The sweet, sad music of humanity has suddenly become rather blatant jazz. And in, addition all this about the Vagabond wandering as he listeth with no man for his master, caring only for the free life and indulging only in an occasional lecture because he likes it is fiction--unadulterated fiction. Day after tomorrow for example he wanders to Sever for a mid-year examination. Ah, there's the carefree life. Read this stuff twice, you don't see it often!